We Are The Gods Of The Modern Age
by LeonaWriter
Summary: It's tough being one of the old spirits of the world when no one believes any more. It's even harder being an air-fire elemental and grounded. But like with most things, a Phoenix always rises to newer heights after the darkest of times. A phoenix!Phoenix AU. Stories are cross-posted from AO3.
1. Once We Were Gods

_Once, we were gods_ , thinks Phoenix as he adjusts his tie and then his hair in the mirror.

The signs of the old days are still there, if you know where to look, which many don't nowadays. The eyes, ever-changing, a window to the soul that, while open, gave more questions than it did answers. The hair, a contradiction of soft and sharp that shouldn't work that way. The way he drew people in, keeping them connected and not letting go.

There weren't many left who actually believed, after all. You had to take what you got, the scraps and leftovers from technological gods and demons.

That was why he had latched on to Miles Edgeworth. It was hard _not_ to latch onto someone who believed in you when no one else did, but it was even harder to let go when belief was something you were starved of, desperate for.

(He'd supposedly been five years old when they found him, scorched and soot-covered, in a burnt-out building. He spent a full five months in the orphanage until a friendly couple took him in, and he'd stayed with them ever since. He never had told them that he wasn't actually five years old, and that he had been the one to start the fire that had thankfully not hurt anyone.

He doesn't think he ever will. The Wrights are human, as human as they come, and Phoenix thinks he _needs_ that, now more than ever. That maybe if he surrounds himself and imitates these humans, he might lose more of what made him different.

He isn't sure he believes it, but it's something he can't bring himself to renounce.)

He looks himself in the eye, and tells himself that this will be enough, and he doesn't need to be anything more than what people see. Not this time. Hopefully, not the next, either.

...

When Miles found him in the hospital, he isn't sure what the man expected to see. Phoenix, battered and bruised, with broken limbs, perhaps?

Surely not simply a bad _fever_.

The worst of it, though, is that he remembers the words that Miles had once said to him - _I didn't want you to see me like this_ \- and he's _ashamed_ , because this is entirely _ridiculous_ -

He's drawn up into himself on the hospital bed, shuddering and shaking like a leaf even hours after coming back to, and every small thing reminds him of the nightmare he's just woken up from.

He isn't afraid of heights, he tells Miles. He's afraid of _falling_. Of falling, and not flying, and hitting the ground.

He _isn't afraid of heights_.

Miles thinks he understands, because in a way he _does_ \- he remembers earthquakes and a shaking form on the ground, mild concern that would turn into worry. But at the same time, he doesn't, because there isn't just fear here. Fear, he thinks, would be simple.

There is, however, _frustration_ , and there's _anger_.

He knows the sensation of the wind on his face the same way that he does the ground under his feet.

Phoenix has _flown_ before, flown and risen so high that stories have been told of shooting stars and comets in the night sky, and he remembers what that's like, and the exhilaration of it all, the sense of being _himself_.

There were times when he was made entirely of air and fire, and that was all the elements were known as, and he _remembers_.

And now… now, he is all too human and he is weighted down to the earth and he _falls_ , so hard and so fast, and the water has made his tinder wet, the only sign of his fire that's left the temperature he's running, the one that has Miles putting a hand to his forehead.

He sighs, and as Miles is leaving with his badge and his magatama, he breathes a blessing into the air after him. A wish.

 _May the wind be always at your back_ , he whispers, and hopes it holds something, coming from an earthed air elemental.

...

"We were gods, once," he says absently.

He's in Germany. He's been having to hide the fact that he's been greeted by just about every one of the fair folk in the area from the moment he'd landed, and he was sure that he'd seen more than one strange-looking clouds peering curiously in through the airplane's windows.

Right now, he's in the von Karma residence, and it feels odd - the air is drifting around him, lazily telling him stories of how things used to be, and how things were, and how things are now, ghosts in the wind. He blinks and shakes his head, to say _not now,_ and it becomes less overwhelming.

Miles looks at him sharply.

"You're speaking highly of yourself. No lawyer has that much power."

Phoenix just smiles faintly under the beanie hat his daughter made for him, and looks out of the window again.

"I wasn't talking about now," comes the quiet, gentle rebuttal. "It was a long time ago. I don't think anyone remembers any more."

He can hear - _feel_ \- Miles shaking his head. The frustration and confusion was evident.

"You aren't making any sense."

After everything he's been through, those five words are enough to break the last of his will to keep it all inside, to let the dam burst, and he's flooded with emotions that he's been trying to hold at bay for years now, slumping down the wall, knees up to his chest and his hands covering his face.

"Wright? Wright, are you…?"

So hesitant, even now, not knowing what to do, and it makes him _smile_ , because isn't that just like Miles? But he can feel bits of himself drifting further and further away day by day now, and even this isn't enough.

"I could let go," he says, a simple statement of fact that causes Miles to inhale sharply. The worst thing is that they both know how that could be interpreted, and he can't say for certain that it'd be entirely unwarranted.

"Don't you _dare-_ "

"I could let go," he says again. "I could vanish, and I could just… drift, again. On the wind. No one would find me, because I wouldn't exist. And maybe after a while, that'd be _true,_ and I'd just… go out. Scatter on the wind. There are worse ways to go."

There's a choking sound, and his chest hurts, because he doesn't even need to see to be able to know who made it, and why.

But the words keep tumbling out, as though they and he have no sense of self-preservation.

"Or I could burn up again. I'd need to find a nice place, though - I wasn't careful enough last time. It's a good thing they put me down as dead, because otherwise I'd have _arson_ on my record." He laughs, because it's ridiculous, and he isn't sure what _else_ to do.

"And Trucy?"

He has to commend Miles for the way his voice doesn't waver, although the icy tone and the anger aren't _entirely_ unexpected.

"She'd stay with you, of course. I trust you most, out of anyone."

There's a long pause, and at the end of it, Miles lets out a rough, heavy breath.

"Wright," he says, and then stops, and then starts again, even more raw this time than before. "Wright, why are you _doing this?"_

He makes the mistake of looking. The pain on Miles' face is worse than his imagination suggested, simply because it's _real_. So is the hand gripped at his other arm, defending himself from not a physical attack, but _emotions_ , and this time it's _him_ who brought Miles to this state. Him.

"Because…" his voice croaks. "Because I'm _scared_." And that's it - it's out. "I'm scared that one day nothing's going to be enough. That I'll miss flying too much. That I'll want to give up on…"

His throat closes up on the words, the words that will make it all _real_ and not something he can _take back_.

But he can't leave it like that, because he knows what it would sound like if he did, and he _can't_ let that just lie there between them.

"…on being _human_ ," he finishes.

And that's that.

He expects Miles to walk out of the room there and then.

He waits. Closes his eyes, so that he doesn't see the red of the back of his jacket as he leaves.

"When I did this to _you_ , you left me with a bruise that took an indecently long time to heal, and I _deserved it_." Footsteps coming closer, the voice becoming clearer. "Look at me. _Please_."

That one word, ripped out and pleading, is enough to get him to open his eyes again, and there Miles is, looking awkward as he crouches down in front of him.

 _"Phoenix…"_

Some people believed that a man never died until the last time his name was spoken. There was power in names - the power to remember, and bring to life an entire person in one word.

For some, their name wasn't just _who_ they were, but also _what_ they were.

When Trucy comes into the living room several hours later, she finds her daddy talking with his friend about things that seem to be making them both happy, which is good, but she doesn't quite get yet why they're both on edge so much.

She thinks they remind her of a game where they've both seen someone cheat, but no one's bringing it up yet.

Mr. Edgeworth starts calling her daddy Phoenix more, and even starts to _correct_ himself sometimes.

He's better than he has been all year, and when they leave, he says something about bringing good winds and no pollen, which makes Mr. Edgeworth roll his eyes.

...

The kid's name is Apollo, and Phoenix laughs when Kristoph tells him, and he never explains why.

He's long since told Trucy, and Maya and Pearls found out in an incident that involved _someone_ finding an old photo that the hadn't even known still existed of a person who was _supposed_ to have died a long, long time ago, but when Pearls tried channeling the man, nothing happened other than Phoenix in the other room getting first incredibly disoriented and then unimaginably worried - telling both of them to, with no exceptions, never try that again - he's not sure what it'd do to any of them.

Apollo, of course, figures it out for himself.

"You're afraid of heights, but you're always looking at the sky," he says, "and Trucy said something once about that - the heights thing - being weird in the first place."

He just smiles enigmatically, and doesn't say anything to confirm or deny.

Apollo gets frustrated, and drops the subject for a while.

"You do realise she's drawn you with a great big red bird behind you, right," Apollo says another time, trying again. This time, he's drawing attention to the photo on the office fridge.

"It's a play on words," he offers this time. "Me, Phoenix. That, _a_ phoenix."

Apollo's glare is all the confirmation that he's got the desired reaction.

"I figured that, thanks."

He's having lunch with Klavier two days after the Misham trial, and the sky shimmers. He looks up, and the sky is _on fire_ , literally, on _fire._ He grabs Klavier for his attention, and the prosecutor looks up, his face paling at he sight, and Apollo thinks that some of the words that come out of the German's mouth can't be considered clean in any language.

They both start to get up, but then by the time they have, the flames have started to _move_ , and-

It's flapping, like it's a bird, but it's a _big_ bird if it is, rising with the air currents and swooping and gliding and _singing_ , singing with a song that sounds less like birdsong and more like that one time Apollo had seen a street performer make music out of glass bottles, beautiful and haunting and full of joy at the same time, and it all lasts until, at long last, it goes out of sight.

"Herr Forehead, did you just…?"

"See the same thing you did? Yeah. I don't quite believe it either."

Something tickles at the back of his mind, and he only realises what it is when he's going through the door to the agency the next morning, seeing the name of his boss all over the place.

"You!" he says, Chords of Steel making the single word far louder than was probably good on anyone's hearing, but _damn_ their hearing. "It was _you_ _!"_

"Huh?" Phoenix Wright is looking far too pleased with himself. It's almost - _almost_ \- enough to make him want to punch the man again. "What was me?"

 _"Phoenix!"_

"That's my name, Apollo. Don't wear it out."

"No. No, you - you _are_ one. A phoenix. Is that supposed to be a joke of some kind? Calling yourself that? Or are you just doing all this to mess with me?"

Phoenix Wright just laughs, and Apollo's taken aback for a moment, because it's not like the laughter he's used to from the man. It seems to bubble up inside and come bursting forth, and somehow, he's reminded of birdsong that sounds like the wind going through glass jars.

He expects to be let down, told that it's all just a joke and a magician's trick, but instead, Phoenix looks him in the eye and asks him what he'd do if it was true.

Apollo says, honestly, that he doesn't know. He's still working it out in his head.

Then, he asks how someone who can _fly_ is afraid of _heights_. He certainly didn't seem afraid yesterday, if that _was_ him.

He notices Phoenix wince a little, not a tell for a lie, but one of remembrance and pain. The look he gives Apollo next isn't unkind, but it reminds him far too much of his first trial, with Phoenix edging Apollo on to find the truth, even when it hurt both of them to do so.

"If flying was first nature to you," Phoenix says, looking away to the window in small glances, "but you currently don't have wings… how would _you_ deal with heights?"

Apollo pales a bit himself at the very idea. He's not fond of heights either, and even then it takes a minute to get what the man (mythological being?) in front of him was saying.

…

"We are the gods of the modern age," Klavier says, tasting the words in his mouth a week after he'd performed for the Themis Academy festival in the memory of his departed mentor. "It sounds like the name of a song, ja?"

He sees Apollo tense, Phoenix Wright blinks owlishly, and Trucy puts a hand to her mouth. He and the new attorney, Athena, are the only ones left feeling in the dark when the others all start to _laugh_.

"If I said something amusing, please. Do feel free to enlighten me."

Strangely, the others all turn to Herr Wright himself, who grins sheepishly, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

"Sorry, sorry… it wasn't you. Actually, I think that's a great idea. I mean, we _have_ got Apollo and Athena-"

"And you, Daddy!" Trucy interjects, a grin on her own face.

"-and me. I'm assuming that's what you meant?"

Klavier shrugs expansively. "I could say no, but you know me too well, it seems."

They laugh and joke about the idea of a song written about them, by Klavier, and he half expects that by the end of it, half the lines he comes up with will end up being things they've said.

When they leave the table, he finds a napkin that's been written on, and he thinks he recognises the handwriting.

 _Once, we were gods,_ it reads. _Some day soon, we might be gods again._

He isn't sure why he feels unnerved by it. Perhaps it's the uncertainty of whether it's meant as a suggestion toward the lyrics… or an honest _promise_.

Then again, he isn't even sure that it was meant for his eyes in the first place, given that Herr Wright seemed to be patting down his pockets, trying to look for something he'd left behind as he he goes out of the door.

...

AN: I saw a single-line prompt that held simply the words the title here. I've already got an AU running in my head of Phoenix as a literal phoenix, but I thought that I could do something a little different with this. I did try and add in the mythology aspects and keep original personalities to the best of my ability.


	2. Ashes and Stardust

Apollo's fingers fumbled with the numbers on his phone's touchscreen, shaking and not wanting to comply.

 _This isn't real,_ were the words that kept going around and around in his head, _it's just a nightmare, and I'm going to wake up, and everything will be fine, and-_

His mind brought the image of Clay's body back to him in full detail, memory emphasising how he'd zoned in on insignificant things, tiny details. Like the fabric of the spacesuit and the way his friend's eyes were closed and the slow but steady flow of the blood still staining the fabric.

He swallowed, gasped for air, and made the call.

Every ring felt like an eternity. Time was everything in situations like these, wasn't it, and every second counted, seconds and minutes and hours racing by that couldn't be taken back.

"Yes, Apollo? Is something the matter?"

He forced himself to take another shaky breath just to get the first words out, the easiest ones, because this was supposed to have been his _day off_ , he was supposed to be watching and cheering everyone on, not - not _this_.

"I… I need your help. _Please_."

Phoenix Wright had said before that a lawyer never cried until it was all over, but this wasn't court. This was life, and someone's life _was_ over, and if he couldn't let out his tears now, then when could he?

And if Phoenix couldn't help him, then it really _was_ all over.

"Tell me what happened."

The shift, in moments flat, from fatherly concern to experienced lawyer. If that were the kind of problem he was in, it would have put him instantly at ease, knowing that he was in safe hands.

But he didn't need Phoenix Wright the _attorney_ for this.

"Someone- my-" Apollo shook his head. The words were getting stuck on the way out, and every time he tried to retreat into professionalism this time, it just _wasn't working._ "It's Clay. Clay's- _help_. You have to - there's got to be something you can _do_."

"Apollo, slow down. I can't understand - what are you asking me to do?"

It was like being paralysed, because all of a sudden he didn't know how to breathe, and he felt his heart pounding in his ears as he thought _how can I ask this, how_.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I just. I just want him to stop being _dead_. He's my best friend and he's just _lying there_ and you're a- a _phoenix_. Can't you do… _something?"_

He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, moving the salty tear tracks around rather than actually dealing with the problem.

 _I shouldn't be asking this. He trusted me. I don't even know what it is he can do, and I'm asking for so much, but it's Clay. It's_ Clay _._

"I- Apollo, I… if someone's dead, then I don't know what I can do. I'm sorry."

Two emotions warred within him. The wish to spare himself the further shame and embarrassment, to stop being in denial and apologise for asking for the impossible, and sheer _anger_ at the world. At everything. Because this was _someone's fault_ , and he had been able to cope with _so much_ , but this was too much, and he didn't want to have to deal with this, too. He didn't know if he _could_.

"You - there has to be _something_ you can do," he said, careful not to raise his voice too loud. "This is my _best friend_ and you're a fucking _phoenix,_ Mr. Wright. There has to be something. _Anything_." He gasped for air. It almost felt like _he_ was the one who couldn't breathe. " _Please_ ," he said again.

The anger drained out of him as fast as it came, and he was left a pleading, desperate mess yet again.

The silence stretched on.

 _Seconds, minutes, hours…_

"I can't promise anything, you know that, don't you?"

Said slowly, carefully. And voices were Athena's thing, not his, but there was a slight change there, one that he'd be able to hear better if he weren't so distracted, one that at the same time made him worry that he'd made a mistake, and made him _hope_ , however dangerous that may be.

"I know. I _know_. But you can try, can't you? That's better than - than _nothing_."

"…I'll be there," Phoenix said, and then he hung up, leaving Apollo alone with his thoughts again, and wondering if things would be better or worse when Mr. Wright was there in front of him, so that he would be able to tell whether or not the man - _phoenix_ \- was lying when he said that he could make this right.

...

Phoenix sent off a quick text before dropping his phone back into his pocket - _Might need your help later. Will call when it's all over either way. Got to fly._ He hoped that he wouldn't end up causing either him or Miles to do anything they'd later regret, with that favour, but if the cost of saving someone's life were a few abuses of loopholes, then he had to admit, he'd pay it any day.

He breathed in slowly, and then let it out, to prepare himself. He didn't fly often, it wasn't as easy as just melting from one form to the other.

Breathe in, and he closed his eyes, starbursts dancing on his eyelids from having been looking out of the window as he opened it.

Breathe out again, and he felt humanity slipping away, the air and warm currents beckoning, the wind singing to him to ride on it, the warm heat of his body in the sunlight turning to the searing flames of sacred fire.

A wingbeat, and he was _free_ , he was riding the dust motes of the city air and blazing a trail behind him, spiralling up into the sky so high that he could see for miles around.

It was easy to get lost in the feeling of _flight_ , to forget, to want to leave everything behind. There were places he could go, where the gods were remembered.

But this wasn't the time for that, and it wouldn't be for - hopefully - a long time yet.

He'd made his promises. For now, he needed to be the Phoenix, but he would _always_ remain Phoenix _Wright,_ too, always stay for those who needed him, because he needed _them_.

Trees and buildings raced past as he sped toward his destination, a round building with a launch pad connected to it on either side, and a track heading north, but he could _feel_ where Apollo was, a little spark of phoenix fire that burned brightly and beckoned him back down to earth. The inbound flight was filled with twists and tight corners after finding a gap that he could fit through that would lead him in further, and then, as he got closer, police officers and the forensics teams scattering at the sight of a bird-shaped-fire that hurtled toward them, careful, whether they realised it or not, to never burn.

Phoenix let himself grow bigger, big enough to scare off the last of the brave men and women trying to preserve the scene until the ME arrived to take the body away - he'd have to compliment them to Miles later - and then settled himself down to figure out what he was supposed to do.

If these were only his own injuries, then healing them, even after what others would see as _death_ , would be as simple and easy as breathing. The only thing that would be able to knock the wind out of him would be if his flames were somehow doused - which certainly wouldn't help here _either_ \- but right now, the process was going to be a bit more complicated than usual.

He'd healed others plenty of times. A small scrape, broken bones, a _gunshot_ , he could deal with those. A knife wound like this one shouldn't have been difficult, per se, but it wasn't the injury that he had issue with.

Fire. He was going to need plenty of fire, and he was going to have to be _careful._ A phoenix was a being of the elements, of fire and air and nothing solid at all. Humans were so much more fragile, breakable, and their lives could be snuffed out so _easily_.

Not to mention, he had to be careful with the _evidence_. This _was_ still a crime scene, after all.

 _Come on. You can do this._

He leaned his head close the body, putting his beak around the knife's handle and drawing it out as delicately as he could. Walked awkwardly on bird feet to the table so that it was safely out of the way before he continued.

 _You're eons old, you can do this. You've done more than this. Remember that one time in Egypt? Or how about Greece, you stayed there so long they_ named _you. Next to that, this is easy. It's just one kid._

 _Just one kid, and you're out of touch, and no one's thought of a phoenix as real in - hundreds of years. Friends and family, instead of thousands of worshippers rising to greet the day with your name. I can hardly remember most of that any more, much less how to do this, I'm rusty-_

A beat of his wings, tendrils of fire trailing behind every movement. His beak opened, and song burst forth.

 _Maybe Godot was right about one thing - I should have been able to save Mia. But I was younger, and afraid, and I didn't know if I could without letting go completely. But this is Apollo's friend. And I can't afford to be rusty, even for just a moment. None of us have that luxury._

He thought about Mia, and all that he'd lost, and of Apollo, and how much he deserved to have that he was at risk of losing. He brought to mind how had sounded over the phone during their brief call. He forced himself to remember that this person, this _Clay Terran_ , was the one who had kept Apollo, someone who he had grown to care about so much, stable and okay while he didn't have a job, because of Kristoph, yes, but also because of _him_ , and he made himself feel once more the pain of having been punched hard by someone who _had_ _trusted him_.

He thought of all of those things, and he looked down at the body lying still underneath him, and Phoenix wept.

...

The first thing that Clay became aware of was that he was _warm_. It wasn't even the same kind of warm that happened when the heating was left on too high, or when he'd caught himself standing too close to the oven… and it wasn't the cloying, choking sort of 'warm' that he'd had nipping at his and Starbuck's heels all the way from the bombed space museum.

No, he was _warm,_ all the way through, which didn't make sense.

Because the second thing he realised was that he was lying on grass. He was _outside_ , and now that he knew that, he could hear birdsong in the nearby trees, and sirens as the police-

Memories started to come back to him, at first in a trickle and then in a flood, making him wince in pain.

"Clay? _Clay?!"_

Starbuck. He had to make sure Sol was okay - after all that, he was _somehow_ all right, even though he _remembered_ getting knifed in the chest, remembered bleeding and hurting and _dying_ -

His eyes opened as he jerked upright, shaking and gasping, and now his eyes and head were hurting from how _bright_ it was.

"Careful, Apollo. I know you're worried, but it's going to be a shock to the system. Clay, right? How are you feeling?"

He turned towards the voices, first one, familiar and welcome, concern so clearly evident on Apollo's face that he couldn't help but smile, and then the other, who he _recognised_. He thought they might even have met a couple of times, but only in passing.

"It's all right," the man was saying, not letting his eyes leave Clay, "you can take your time."

Phoenix Wright looked - tired. Worn out. Even in dressed in a blue three piece that made its owner look like they should be in the courtroom, he seemed… just, _exhausted_. But even then, he was asking after Clay.

He had to cough a bit before he could speak properly, because his voice was scratchy from disuse, even after only a few hours. It _had_ just been a few hours, and not a few days… hadn't it? The sun was in the right kind of position, and the police were still there from the bombing - and, decisively, when he looked up at the sky, he could still see smoke billowing out.

"I'm… I'm fine." Apollo cracked a smile, but he looked like he was about to start _crying_ any moment now. "Uh… _how_ am I fine?"

Sure enough, Apollo's eyes started leaking like they always did when he was overly emotional and he was angry or upset or worried, but he was laughing as well, so maybe it wasn't _too_ bad.

"Yeah, about that. Did I ever tell you my boss is a phoenix?"

He rolled his eyes.

"A few times. It's been hard to get you to shut up about it recently, given he's-"

"No, not just that. Literally. He's _literally_ a _phoenix_."

Phoenix literally-a-phoenix Wright huffed. But he wasn't denying the idea. And although it didn't make even a bit of sense, neither did the fact that he was alive, when he _remembered dying_.

"You know, I'm not even gonna argue with you. If you say your boss is a freaking phoenix, sure. He's a freaking _phoenix_. And you've got a magic bracelet." More relieved - though at least not _hysterical_ , but with the way things were going he was just saving that for later - laughter from both of them. Then, "Is Sol - is Mr. Starbuck okay? I was with him when- when it happened, but I can't remember anything else."

"Yeah." The word was one big release of tension from Apollo. "He's fine. Though, I heard something while I was waiting for Mr. Wright. Apparently, since no one else was there, they're thinking _he_ was the one who did this to you. They've got him for your attempted murder. Which is _stupid_. He wouldn't do that."

He caught Apollo's use of _attempted,_ but didn't feel able to correct him when it was clear none of them were holding it together very well.

"You two know that," Phoenix Wright said, speaking up again, "but unfortunately for us, that won't hold up in court. We're going to have to present evidence or testimony that says that it can't have been possible, and without Clay here able to say what happened, we'll be in trouble without it."

Clay frowned, his hands clutching at grass through the one glove he still had on, and the other hand that was bare to the elements.

"But I _can_ testify. I'm here, aren't I?"

But Wright was shaking his head, and Apollo was just as confused as Clay was, it seemed, looking all ready to argue, before his boss explained himself.

"The person who did this to you… they're still out there. And a good and trusted friend of mine says that whoever they are, they're _dangerous_. This person believes you to be dead. Because of that, I'm sorry. But you have to _lie low_. We need to find somewhere you can stay where no-one will know you're there, and you need to recover there, while we sort this out on our end, with everything we _do_ have at our disposal."

Clay swallowed, hard, the physical memory of something sharp jabbing into him and cutting his life short with no one to help being one that caused the blood to drain from his face.

Apollo made a small, distressed noise, looking at his boss as if for any sign that he might be joking. Then he met Clay's eyes, and a moment later he was nodding.

"Klavier would probably be able to help. He's got a big enough house, so Clay could stay there and not get noticed even if there were visitors. And he's gone through something like this before, so I don't think he'd be loose with information he knows could kill." Another nod. "I trust him."

Wright considered the option before smiling.

"Good idea. He's been starting to piece things together about me, too, so hopefully it won't come as too much of a shock when I drop by unannounced with a dead man."

"Wait, you mean you're _flying_ again? I thought you said-!"

The older man laughed, and not for the first or last time, Clay thought that he could like the guy.

"If I tried to carry anyone but him, you're right. I wouldn't be able to. But Clay?"

He found himself looking Apollo's boss right in the eye, and it was… disquieting, to say the least. Unlike the laugh he'd just heard, this serious look, eyes closer to blue than the dark near-black that seemed to be normal, made him worry.

"Part of the reason why I want you to lie low and recover is because right now, you've just been… remade. You've got a lot of fire in you. You'll be fine, and you'll even out, but - and I'm saying this so that you both understand - I wouldn't say that you're one hundred percent _human_."

 _You've got a lot of fire in you_. That had to be why he felt so _warm_. He couldn't say he fully understood, though.

"Is that something I need to worry about, Mr. Wright?" he said, just as Apollo was saying, "But he's fine, isn't he? There isn't anything _wrong_ , right?"

Wright laughed again, seemingly pleased with their responses.

Like before, Clay figured that if he was going to be freaking out about how he was _alive_ and how he was apparently _not all_ _human anymore_ , he could do that _later_ , and he'd be happy he just _was_ alive for now, thank you very much, without worrying about the consequences.

They could be problems for tomorrow.

He _had_ a tomorrow.

And then Phoenix Wright was telling Apollo to back away a bit, and Apollo was stepping clear of them, and then the world was on fire, and _he_ was on fire, and he was riding the air, and if he'd had any doubts before, he definitely didn't any longer.

 _It's only a short trip,_ said a voice that he immediately recognised as Phoenix Wright's. _Just to Klavier Gavin's. And I'll be walking back from there._

Klavier Gavin. If this was any other situation, Clay would probably be a lot more excited, a lot less daunted with underlying paranoia and fear. He'd known about the prosecutor's band before Apollo had even realised they existed. And now he'd be staying at the man's _house_.

 _I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a star_ , he thought to himself, the sensation of _being_ fire and flame instead of being _on_ fire not one that he'd be forgetting any time soon.

 _Laughter_ came back at him, and he realised belatedly that his thoughts could be _heard._

 _I wouldn't know,_ came the response. _I've never been into space, so I've never been able to get up close and personal with one._

They made a turn, and then a sharp twist, and he wondered if this was anything like what it would be like when he finally _did_ get to launch, like they'd supposed to, like Sol had thought they were.

 _I haven't either, yet._

Slowing down, and then they were getting a spectacular aerial view of what he had to assume was Klavier Gavin's home, and then they were spiralling down, and it was a good thing he was used to low gravity and spinning at high velocity, because if he wasn't, he might have started puking the moment he stepped, suddenly solid again, onto the carpet.

He heard Phoenix _actually, really is a real freaking phoenix_ Wright start mumbling something about getting jelly legs whenever he's been flying, something about rapidly changing perspectives, and he's being told that Apollo's probably going to call or visit Prosecutor Gavin himself to warn him, and to be _careful_ , but they were going to get whoever had done this - Phoenix, Apollo and Athena, all of them - so he didn't have anything to worry about.

It was as the man was just about to leave that he turned around with a large smile on his face.

"I'm holding you to that 'yet', Mr. Terran."

Clay laughed, sitting down on a chair that seemed safe enough to sit on, for something that was in a rock star prosecutor's place.

"Don't worry, I'm not about to give up on my dreams just because of something like this! I trust you, and Apollo, and everyone else. You get 'em for me. I'll be fine."

...

AN: Mainly inspired by how I'd written Clay into one of my other stories (Dischord and Fine Tuning, from the soulmates au) and I was hit with a massive amount of feelings over this guy. Mainly over the fact that we only get about as many pictures of him as we would a well-documented victim, *not* someone who had such a massive impact on a main character. I mean, they had Apollo mention him several times, but he never appeared until he was gone.

Well, I felt the need to rectify that. So I did, especially when I realised that I had the perfect AU on hand with which to do so.


End file.
